A statue along the road
carved from wood or stone—
fans archangel wings.
Bald eagle,
phantom seen
through a driver’s side window,
its granite presence
could grace a cathedral portal,
aerie sentinel among
gargoyles and martyrs.
Head feathers blazing white,
the eagle tears and feeds
from the ribs of a deer—
recent traffic casualty.
The eagle knows patterns and drives,
traveling miles
on the rhythmic rise and fall
of sun-fueled currents.
It has survived
without contemplation
or fear
of what is unseen—
life compressed
to reflexes and seconds
on this remote highway.
Lynn Wankowski devotes time to poetry and hiking country hills. She and her husband live near Chicago, where there are no hills—but a variety of great architecture.
